


replaced by everyday

by freezerjerky



Series: it's coming into sight [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Recovery, Trans Male Character, Trans Newton Geiszler, very mild suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: Here, though, no one cares so much who he is or who he’s ever been.The nearest town is a ten minute drive for Newt and he likes it that way, it allows Newt to have the solitude he never thought he'd be craving.in which Newt buys a farmhouse as part of his recovery





	replaced by everyday

**Author's Note:**

> This whole work is thanks to the lovely [Erica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins), who came up with the concept which would not leave my brain.
> 
> Fic title from "Nightswimming" by R.E.M.

The farmhouse is white when Newt moves in, a bit rundown but still habitable. It’s cheap property and he’s used a sizable amount of his retirement fund to purchase it. With the remaining funds and the PPDC stipend he’s been promised for life, he’s sure he’ll manage just fine. Newt suspects they’ll pay him more if he asks for it, just to be out of their hair. Their dirty little secret hidden in rural America, far away from anything he can use to destroy the world.

Admittedly, that last bit is as much him as anyone else. There are even universities, charmed by the novelty of the situation, that still offered him jobs. Most of the scientific community has gone the route of ostracization, but there are always those who will see the truth or who won’t care. Still, in some odd way, Newt feels like the role of Pariah is one he’s always been destined for, a more formal way of being the outsider he’s always been.

Here, though, no one cares so much who he is or who he’s ever been.The nearest town is a ten minute drive for Newt and he likes it that way, it allows Newt to have the solitude he never thought he'd be craving. He takes weekly trips into the city to meet with his therapist and if he’s very lucky, some old friend will meet him for coffee or dinner and he’ll get all the news he needs about his old life. His old life, though, is over a decade distant and he can’t imagine connecting with most of it properly. It’s a dead thing and not something he can afford to carry around with him.

There’s thousands of lives he has to carry already, and his own just seems like a weight too many. Now he can make himself busy creating and not destroying, and if he spends most days working through the daylight hours, there’s no one there to tell him otherwise. He’d spent the first month in the new house fixing up the master bedroom and kitchen. Next, and very importantly, was converting the other small office space on the ground floor into a guest room, a space for anyone who would visit. Or someone in particular to visit.

Now, though, he’s taking advantage of the last warm days of the year to paint the house a pale shade of blue. The man at the hardware store had said it was cornflower, but Newt didn’t care what it was called. He liked that it was muted and calm, like the ocean when it’s tamed and under control. Like nothing big and expansive and terrible rising from the waves. The color is who Newt was striving to be now.

He’s climbed up the ladder painting the second story when the car pulls up. Newt shields his eyes from the sun and smiles to himself when he verifies who it is that’s arrived, but he doesn’t stop working. There’s still so much work to do today and he’ll have to pause soon, but he needs the next few moments to collect himself, to drown out the guilt he feels every time Hermann visits.

“Surely you can hire someone to do that for you,” Hermann calls up from the base of the ladder. He’s already dressed as though fall has come, but Newt knows the leaves haven’t changed yet. It’s still summer for him and he’s determined to finish painting in the next week.

“But then where’s the fun?” he shouts down. “I’ll be down in a moment, the front door’s unlocked.”

“That’s not safe, you know.”

“The next house is half a mile away, I usually know who’s around here. Make yourself at home and I’ll be right down.”

Hermann disappears into the house a few moments later, after giving a last worried look. Newt is careful to put his painting supplies away before he moves inside himself. When he enters, Hermann’s sitting on his secondhand couch with his hands folded in his lap, in that weird semi-prim way that Hermann does when he’s not yet comfortable with a place. 

“Can I get you something?” Newt offers. “Some tea? Water?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Newt steps into the kitchen to get a glass of water for himself. The water here is purer than anything Newt remembers drinking in his life, fresh from a well on the property that’s not likely to run out any time soon. Before he emerges from the kitchen, he takes the time to straighten up his flannel shirt, make sure the sleeves are rolled correctly, that nothing’s come unbuttoned.

He settles on the opposite side of the couch from Hermann. “How was the drive up here?”

“Wasn’t so bad. That bridge that was under construction last time I visited seems to be completed now, which cut my time about fifteen minutes shorter.”

“Yeah, they just finished that earlier this week. Made for a smoother ride on Wednesday morning. Sorry I couldn’t stop by your office, by the way, my appointment ran late.”

“That’s alright, Newton. I knew I’d be coming down to see you today.” Hermann offers him a smile, it’s put upon but surprisingly warm. Inviting.

“Still missed getting to annoy you for a few hours.”

Hermann’s doing some fancy research related to space travel these days, something about getting the space station plans back on track now that the world is not going to end yet again. Newt wonders why Hermann didn’t stay with the PPDC to an extent, but he also knows precisely why he’s here. He can’t find it in himself to be selfless enough to tell Hermann that he didn’t have to follow him half a world away, maybe one day he’ll find the courage to say so. Or to say any of the many other things that need said.

“Now you can annoy me until tomorrow morning, which is ample time for you to make my life miserable.”

 

In the afternoon, Hermann takes a nap in the guest room (Hermann’s room, other guests can find someplace else they fit) and Newt walks out to the old cow pond for a swim. The water’s probably too cold, but in mid afternoon, it’s the warmest it’ll be for the day. He floats on his back, staring up at the sun perhaps a bit too directly. There’s still so much work he has to do that he can’t afford these idle days, he wants the house done by winter. But then what? Will he be able to find a new hobby? A new distraction for himself? A new way to keep his hands busy with creation?

Newt knows, objectively, that you can’t hold your breath forever, but he tries anyway as he floats. It’s not as though he wants to do anything with that thought, he’s in a pond and he could if he wanted to, but he won’t. There’s people who care too much about him, and he’s working on being one of those people again. For now he’s got to keep that short list close to his heart and keep on taking deep breaths. When he looks up, Hermann is descending the small hill down to the pond, his confident but crooked stride moving onto the small dock.

With a splash, Newt swims over, hefting himself up onto the dock next to the pile where he’s deposited his towel, glasses, and a t-shirt. (He doesn’t need the glasses, not really, they’re glorified readers, but they make him feel more like himself.)

“It’s definitely too cold to be swimming right now.” Hermann’s wearing one of Newt’s work jackets that he’s bought for the colder weather. The sleeves are a bit short on him, but it suits him.

“You really shoulda moved to Florida,” Newt remarks as he towels off his hair. “It’s still in the 60s.”

“That’s not swimming weather.”

“It’s part of my afternoon routine, I’m just trying to adjust.” He wraps the towel around his shoulders.

Hermann braces himself on Newt’s shoulder as he slides down to the dock. Seated, he removes his shoes and socks, placing them aside before he rolls up his trousers, nearly to his knees. He sighs deeply as he plunges his calves into the water. For a moment Newt stops to admire the little bird pattern on Hermann's socks.

“See? It’s nice,” Newt defends, leaning over to knock his shoulder against Hermann’s.

“There’s nothing strange in there, is there?”

“No.” Newt laughs. “Maybe some plants and minnows, but that’s about it.”

“You should come spend a weekend with me in the city sometime.”

“Someone’s gotta feed the chickens,” Newt says, and he’s aware of how ridiculous that answer must seem.

“There’s that very nice man with the red truck down the road who could toss some food at them and collect eggs.” Hermann rests his hand on top of Newt’s, only for a moment, before they both pull their hands away.

“I’ll think about it. Usually a couple hours hits my maximum limit for crowds.” Newt rubs the back of his neck. It would have been so easy to take Hermann’s hand again, to tell him that he doesn’t want him to stop doing that, that he wants to hold his hand for the rest of his life. He wants to die with Hermann holding his hand, he thinks about it with the same level of longing as he has for sex or good chocolate cake. Eating chocolate cake and then having sex with Hermann would probably kill him and he's okay with that.

“My apartment is in a quiet neighborhood.”

“Quiet in the city is not the same as quiet here.”

“I know that.” 

“It's just…” Newt trails off for a moment. “It's a lot of people around and I'm trying to take time to be alone with my thoughts because I haven't been able to be alone with them for a decade.”

“Does my visiting bother you, Newton?”

“No!” He reaches for Hermann's hand again. “No, never you.”

I want to do whatever is best for your...continued growth and healing. And I know I may be, in many ways, a constant reminder of bad times in your life.”

Newt furrows his brows. The only bad moment he can think of in relation to Hermann is how he almost killed him, and that’s hardly Hermann’s fault. He doesn’t even have nightmares about his hands on Hermann’s neck much anymore, and when he does Hermann always lives now. Even if Hermann hates him, he always lives.

“Even if you were around during bad times, you’ve always been the best thing.” Newt looks away, not facing towards Hermann or the water. He wishes he could just blurt it out, the way he feels about Hermann, the way he’s almost always felt. But then Hermann would say how he feels in return and that would just be a mess. He’d drag him down.

“I don’t think you’d have always said that, Newton.” Hermann’s biting back a smile, Newt knows this without looking at him.

“Maybe not always, but it’s still true.”

Hermann pulls his legs out of the water and carefully rolls down his trousers. This is a cue, though unspoken, for Newt to stand to help Hermann back up to his feet. 

“I thought I’d treat you to dinner,” Hermann remarks. “In that little cafe that smells a bit too much like deep frying oil.”

“Can I take you to town on my motorcycle?” Newt asks, bending down to pick Hermann’s cane off the dock and hand it over to him.

“I don’t see why not.”

 

After dinner they sit on Newt's front porch, though Hermann's bundled up in one of Newt's flannels and the work coat. It's still surprising to see Hermann in such casual clothing, it hardly looks like it should suit him but it does. Newt doesn't mind the chill in the air, he actually finds it refreshing. Any fresh air is good after a year of confinement. 

“Do you want me to get the telescope?” Newt asks, looking over to Hermann. They're sitting in a set of chairs Newt bought at a local market. He wants to make his own furniture, but the chairs are above his skill set at present. There are two very well constructed bookshelves in his bedroom, though. Eventually he’ll build his own table, and maybe a new bed frame for his bedroom, and he’ll finish repairing the broken railing on the porch. This will take longer than until winter, he has time to keep his hands occupied, to fight that itch to hold a scalpel in his hand and cut into something that was once living.

“It’s a clear night,” Hermann observes, as though that’s an answer. And Newt understands that it is, so he stands and moves into the house to fetch his telescope from where he’s shoved it in the upstairs foyer that he’s used for all of his storage. It’s a bit clunky and uncoordinated to carry the telescope down the stairs and when he steps outside with it finally, Hermann’s standing by the front door, looking concerned.

Hermann remains nervously standing behind him as Newt sets up the telescope, as though he thinks Newt doesn’t know how to do this. They used to do this over a decade ago, on nights where the sky was almost something resembling clear back in Hong Kong. To be fair, Newt didn’t really know how what to look for then, but he knows now. It’s one of the few things he’s certain he’d gained from Hermann in the drift.

Regardless of what Newt does or doesn’t know, he lets Hermann take the lead with the telescope, guiding it towards anything he wants to show Newt. They take turns viewing distant stars, constellations that dot the sky that Newt’s still only learning. Hermann can look up at the sky and pull out the name of constellations the way he rattles off numbers, with the matter of fact tone that Newt always finds so endearing. The question forms on the tip of his tongue, if Hermann considers the stars the handwriting of God the same way his beloved numbers are. The stars, distant and far bigger than anything Newt can comprehend, certainly don’t lie and they don’t forgive.

Lack of forgiveness is comforting, when he’s standing in front of someone who has forgiven him far too easily. There’s no need to love the stars because they don’t need it and he doesn’t need it, not the way he needs Hermann, the way his air is already constricting in his lungs at the thought of Hermann getting into his car and driving back to the city tomorrow morning. But he’ll move on, he’ll die a little bit again and then come back to life with his work. Therapy has been for coping and adjusting, after all, and Dr. Sutcliffe is paid a very generous amount of money by the PPDC to talk through all of Newt’s issues and she does an excellent job of it.

“Newton,” Hermann says, cutting Newt out of a reverie. “Did you hear a single word I said?”

“Something about...stars? Sorry, I was just thinking about how big they are, about how some of them are long dead, but they still look like they’re shining strong to us. It seemed incomprehensible to me when I was younger but I’m starting to understand now.”

“You are not a dead star. You are not dead at all.”

“I don’t feel it right now.” He pulls away fully from the telescope, angles it closer to Hermann. “I’m working on feeling not like that at all.”

“I know you are, Newton.” Hermann smiles at him before looking up through the telescope. 

Newt’s breath catches, caught by the line of Hermann’s jaw, the way the smile stays on his lips as he watches up at the sky with fascination. There’s nothing Hermann will ever love more than this night sky, Newt thinks, his beloved stars, so Newt mouths the words that threaten to spill out of him. In the stillness of the night it’s like a holy confession, but everything already knows. The stars know, the still air around him knows, every atom in Newt’s body has known this truth for twenty years. Hermann cannot know, Hermann cannot be told, because Hermann deserves this perfect, unbroken night sky.

 

Even Newt has to admit there’s a chill in the air when they come inside. They stand awkwardly for a moment, outside of their respective bedrooms, to say their goodnights. Newt’s never sure what sort of action is best for the ordeals they’ve been through, the strange platonic intimacies they’ve already shared.

He can hear Hermann in the other room going through his nightly routine, he can even place each sound with an action. The tap of his cane on hardwood floor, then on rug, as he changes. The sounds of his evening stretches. The creak of the guest room mattress as he climbs into bed. He doesn’t mean to listen in, he’s just acutely aware.

When Newt was first extracted, because that’s how he chooses to see it, being plucked from some all consuming thing, he had to live under Hermann’s watchful eye for several months. The intention was to observe and then clear him when the time came, but Newt remembers living in fear of that. He remembers, selfishly, thinking about how this PPDC punishment was giving him everything he’d ever wanted. His therapist has since told him that wanting to be cared for by someone he cares about in turn is not too much to ask for as a person deserving of love, but he feels that being under Hermann’s care is too good. It’s far too much and far more than he can dare hope to deserve.

Somehow, by the end of his three month trial, he’d ended up sharing Hermann’s bed. They both had nightmares, they both woke frequently in the night. If they woke on the same night, they’d stay up until it was light, talking about nonsense that didn’t matter, or about what had occurred in the past decade. (What had occurred to Hermann, never to Newt.) Sometimes when Newt would wake up and not wake Hermann, he’d take a few moments, indulge in the fantasy that only the cover of the middle of the night would give. This was the bed he’d slept on every night for the past decade, this is the man he slept beside, and the life he’d worked hard to deserve. He wasn’t given this out of the compassion of Hermann’s heart, he was given this because he’d loved unabashedly and made the right choices in his life. He was given this because he chose to kiss Hermann that night they drifted. Or the morning after. Or the many chances he had and didn’t take.

He knows Hermann’s not sleeping, he’s probably sitting up and reading a book, or checking emails. It would be so easy to slip out of his bed, to make his way to Hermann’s room and climb into the bed with him. Hermann wouldn’t deny him, he’d probably smile and welcome him with open arms, call him Newton in that fond and familiar way and kiss him if he asked. Hermann would take him apart, too. Piece by blissful piece, and put him back together in the correct order but oh. If he did that, Newt wouldn’t be able to bear Hermann leaving in the morning, and that’s unfair. He deserves better and sweeter things.

So he sleeps and he has a nightmare but when he wakes in the night, he’s not afraid. His bed is empty, save the blankets he’s kicked off, but he’s not afraid. The hell that was his life, that profound ordeal is now over and that’s enough. Oh, he’ll get better in time. That’s what he’s working towards.

 

“Do your chickens have names?” Hermann asks, shoving his free hand into the pocket of the work jacket. There’s a bit of a chill in the air this morning, but Newt’s in his usual flannel, still rolled up to reveal his forearms.

“No, they’re just chickens.” Newt shrugs, shifting the red hen to check for an egg. Underneath her is a singular large brown egg, which he places in the basket he’s brought with him. “Do you want to name them?” The truth is, Newt’s debated over names for ages and nothing suits.

“Dietrich, Karla, Bastien,” Hermann says with the practiced ease one saves only for families.

“You do realize these are all lady chickens, right?” Newt shifts the speckled hen next and she seems a bit more perturbed.

“Chickens don’t care about gender, Newton. I thought you of all people would understand this.”

“Okay, okay, that’s fine.” He turns to face Hermann. “You’re the one who has to live with the fact that there’s three chickens running around named after your siblings.”

“Chickens don’t live for very long, so it will only be an issue for a few years.”

“Chickens live for over half a decade, dude.” Newt examines his eggs. He has plenty to use them for breakfast. “The neighbor who gave me these ladies said they were only a couple months old. He said in the spring, he’ll give me a rooster so I can have more chickens if I want.”

“Do you want more chickens?”

“I’m sort of going day by day with what I want, you know?” Newt’s awkwardly patting below a clucking yellow hen now, checking for the egg that is simply not there today. “Maybe by tomorrow I’ll want goats instead.”

“Why don’t you focus on getting your house in order before you actually start a farm?”

Newt laughs in agreement. He knows before long Hermann’s going to ask other questions. How long is he going to engage in this fantasy? Will he ever return to work? But for now he appreciates the patience, the tender delicacy that allows Hermann to indulge him in this. Newt knows eventually he’ll run out of things to build, or he’ll miss the joys of being in a lab, of experimentation. Maybe, if he’s very lucky, he’ll even miss the pleasure of being around people properly, of being able to approach strangers without dread overtaking him, without fearing he’ll lose control of his own thoughts.

With the chickens tended to, they return to the house and Newt makes breakfast. Hermann sits at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee as he watches Newt work on breakfast. Newt insists that Hermann sits, that he’s a guest and he doesn’t need to help with the breakfast. Really Newt just likes to cook, he likes to have control of his kitchen and how many chocolate chips fall into his pancakes and how many slices of turkey bacon he can eat. It’s nice to have control of his life, and it’s nice to use this to treat someone.

“Are you going home after breakfast?” Newt asks, once he’s seated across from Hermann with their respective stacks of pancakes and fresh eggs. 

“I’m afraid so. I have work to do later today, but I’ll be back in a few weeks, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course, dude. Just let me know the weekend and I’ll make sure everything’s ready for you.”

“And you’ll come by after therapy this week if you have the time?”

Newt smiles across the table at him. “Of course. I’ll bring you coffee and everything and we can debate and annoy your colleagues.”

“You could even stay for dinner,” Hermann ventures, eyeing him across the table.

“Maybe.”

“It’s a short drive, not even forty five minutes from my place now, with that bridge, as I told you yesterday. You could be back in time to be warm in your bed.”

Eventually, Newt knows, Hermann’s going to ask him over and he’s never going to leave. This is why it’s important that he never accepts these invitations.

 

Autumn comes with the golden leaves and the whistling winds of rural cliches. Newt manages to paint the farmhouse before the first chill settles in and focuses on making sure his chicken coop is properly insulated for the winter weather before he shuts himself away for the cold season. The prospect of being stuck inside for most of winter is both comforting and a bit terrifying. What if he runs out of things to do? What if he gets bored and ends up running away?

Instead, in addition to working on the house, he decides to take up knitting. His life is subdued but busy and he finds himself skirting along the edges of something like happiness. Not happiness itself, because that’s not something he’s sure he’ll ever have again. Dr. Sutcliffe talks to him about this in their weekly sessions, about why he feels like this. If he’s punishing himself for what he’s done (or hasn’t done) and Newt can’t say for certain if that is why. There’s just a happiness that cannot be regained after so much of himself has been lost. When Newt looks at her with glassy eyes and speaks about losing the ability to feel this emotion, Dr. Sutcliffe tells him that he needs to remember this- that happiness is an emotion not a state of being.

Instead, the state he feels is calmness, a stillness that a decade ago would have felt utterly unnatural to Newt and who he is is a person. While he’s healing, he needs this, the quietude and the subdued nature. It’s hard to explain to Dr. Sutcliffe or anyone else that what he’s seeking for is forgiveness so he can allow himself to be loud again, to shout, to make a mess, to feel like he can destroy without trying to tear the world apart at its seams. He can’t articulate why some mornings he wakes up itching for his scalpel, but instead he’ll work on the scarf he’s knitting, or sanding wood for his table.

Hermann comes less often now that it's colder and Newt tries not to read too much into it. He understands that Hermann's leg hurts him on many cold days, that the drive is rather far. To compensate, he continues to make his house perfect. He doesn't try to think too hard about why he puts bars on the walls of his master bathroom or a gentle ramp up the front porch, or why no essential rooms of the house are upstairs. He knows why, and if he admits it that means he's too far gone in his fantasy. He’s not going to ask for this live he’s envisioning, but if Hermann tries to pursue it, he won’t stop himself.

It’s early November now and he’s stoked the fire in anticipation of Hermann’s arrival in the afternoon. This week, Hermann will visit for two nights, not just the one, which will only make things harder when it’s time for him to leave. Hermann knocks on the door, as though he doesn’t have the spare key, and Newt rises to greet him. They don’t normally hug to greet each other, but today Newt does. Hermann’s wool coat smells like it’s fresh out of storage and his hair curls ever so slightly around his ears. He's smiling at Newt when he pulls away.

“That's quite the beard you've got there, Newton.”

Tentatively, Hermann reaches out and touches his face, touching the prickly hair of Newt's beard. Newt knows Hermann’s hands are focusing on the bits that have gone grey. He hates the grey and the greying hair that's coming in at his temples, but he knows trying to dye it is an uphill battle he won't win.

“I think it fits my sexy lumberjack image I'm going for.”

“It certainly does.” Hermann pulls his hands away. 

Newt tries not to blush at the implication of what Hermann just said. Hermann agrees that it’s an attractive look on him, that he looks sexy. There’s a nearly forgotten feeling in the pit of Newt’s stomach that he doesn’t want to ignore. He wants to have his turn, to take Hermann’s face in his hands and cradle it with all the tender feelings he’s trying to keep inside of himself. He also wants to kiss him until there’s no trace of himself left and everything is just Hermann, and that’s exactly why he won’t take his turn yet.

 

That night, they end up on Newt’s couch, sharing a blanket as they stare at the fire. Newt’s made them both hot chocolate and they sip it slowly. The bottom of the mug has a chocolate sludge, Newt realizes, where he didn’t stir the chocolate all the way. He’s still impatient in all the wrong ways, he can’t subdue that.

“I’m going to Germany for a few weeks,” Hermann announces when he leans in to put his mug on the coffee table.

There’s already panic rising in Newt’s chest. That’s a few weeks without his regular visits from Hermann, or his lunches after therapy. Codependence is not healthy or good and he knows this, but he’s already spent a decade without Hermann and he doesn’t want to spend any more time this far away. Living apart is already too much, but it’s necessary. He has to keep him at an arm’s length.

“Is something wrong?” Newt asks, his voice trembling.

“My father is very ill. I wouldn’t leave you for just anything, Newton.” Hermann reaches for his hand under the blanket and squeezes it. This time, his hand lingers.

“You’re allowed to. You can leave for any reason you want, Hermann.”

Hermann shifts on the couch, turns to face Newt where he sits across from him. It’s dark but he can still make out Hermann’s expression in the candlelight.

“I know I can, but that doesn’t mean I want to or that I will.” Hermann squeezes his hand again. “When we were much younger men, I thought the prospect of spending the rest of my life tied to you was the most terrifying thing in the world. Then when we were older and it was- it was taken away from me, I-”

“We don’t have to talk about this.”

“I think we do. I had you taken away from me, I had the privilege of growing old with you ripped from me. And now here we are, in all of our middle aged glory together, and that’s very precious to me.”

“Precious enough that you left behind a perfectly good life.”

“Perfectly good? I’d waged enough war, I’d won enough battles. I’m tired of all of this fighting. If they need me again, they’ll need you again and we’ll go together.”

Flattered as he is by the thought of Hermann wanting to spend his life with him, something in his last sentence makes Newt’s blood run cold. There’s that itch again, the desire for a scalpel in his hands, to be shouting as he works in a lab, to throw himself into the chaos. But it’s dangerous, and there’s always some temptation lurking there.

“What if I fuck it up?” Newt answers desperately. He’s having a hard time breathing suddenly.

“Newton. Newt.” Hermann takes both of his hands now. “I’d be with you every step of the way, and I wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to. Darling man, we’re in this together.”

“Together,” he repeats, even as he withdraws his hands from Hermann’s grasp.

“No matter what. Or how.” Hermann shifts away, minimally, and Newt fights the urge to pull him close. “I just want you to know that I’m so happy to have the chance to grow old with you, it’s my greatest privilege.”

Newt smiles at him and he can see the smile in return in the lowlight of the fire. “That means a lot to me, Hermann.” He stands then, collecting their mugs of cocoa to take them to the kitchen.

“Newton, don’t keep your sleeves rolled up like that,” Hermann chides. “It stretches out your sweater.”

He snorts and carefully unrolls the sleeves of his sweater. When he returns to the living room, he watches Hermann where he sits on the couch for a few long minutes. He’s wearing one of Newt’s flannels over his light turtleneck for warmth and it looks acutely different from the Hermann he once knew but that’s not true. Hermann has been, remarkably, a constant in his life for over two decades.

 

Hermann’s father passes a few weeks later and he doesn’t come home from Germany until nearly December. Newt copes and he copes well. He works on painting Hermann’s room and building a kitchen table. The anxiety he feels at being apart from Hermann ebbs and flows daily but he knows he can withstand it. He sees Hermann after his therapy but Hermann doesn’t come and visit him until the last day of Hanukkah.

In all his years of knowing Hermann, he’d never been particularly religious. Hermann’s Jewish heritage was never a secret, but the religious aspects didn’t impact his daily life, and even now he’s sure it’s not something too deep. But he thinks he understands Hermann’s sudden need for faith. As a younger, more foolish man, he’d remind Hermann that being an atheist means he doesn’t have to go through any of this, but Newt respects this need for reverence, for upholding the holy in your life.

The next day, they bundle up to cut down a Christmas tree. Newt’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to take a tree from the nearby forest, but no one’s going to notice anyway. The plan is poorly thought through and all of Newt’s macho fantasies are brought crashing down when he realizes he’s responsible for dragging the tree back on his own. By the time they return to the house, his arms are sore and he’s ready for a bath. When he returns, Hermann’s sat in front of the tree, organizing the boxes of ornaments Newt’s brought down from storage. These are the family ornaments, passed down by his father, stored away for nearly two decades before they were sent to the farmhouse. Now, they’re being handled so tenderly by Hermann as he dusts they off and lays them aside to be placed on the tree.

“You put the lights on first,” Newt says, leaning down to dig through one of the boxes. “Then the ornaments. Then the final touch is the star which should be in here somewhere.”

“These were the ornaments on your tree growing up.”

“Mhm.” Newt holds up a faded paper star. “Dad brought a lot of them over when he moved, too. There’s a lot of wooden ornaments and these paper things because that’s what he was raised with.”

“I think they’re beautiful. My father allowed us to put up a tree but it wasn’t as sentimental. I remember admiring all of the beautiful things other people would buy at the markets when I was a boy.”

“Is it painful to think of him?” Newt asks softly.

“Not particularly.” Hermann’s blinking more than usual and Newt thinks he catches the sight of a tear on his lashes.

“You don’t have to stay through Christmas,” Newt answers. “If you want to go back home to your family.”

“Don’t you understand, Newton? You’re my family. This is the first holiday I have the pleasure to spend with my- with a very important part of my family in a long while.”

Newt bites his lip. He wants to ask what role he plays in Hermann’s family, if he’s a brother or a cousin or something else altogether. But oh, he knows. “I’m gonna go upstairs and get the lights, then we’re gonna put on some bad Christmas music and get this bad boy decorated.”

When they’re done, the tree is haphazardly decorated. Neither of them have the artistic vision to decorate it well and the star on top is lopsided. Newt personally thinks it’s the most beautiful Christmas tree he’s seen in his adult life but he’s not sure of how to articulate this, so he doesn’t. They place their presents for each other under the tree and have a quiet night in. It’s peaceful and quiet. That night it snows.

 

It snows off and on most of the days leading up until Christmas and a bitter cold wind rings out outside. Newt goes alone in the morning to fetch the eggs and tend to the chickens and Hermann stays in. On Christmas morning, Hermann does come outside with him, walking gingerly through the snow. Newt has to support him on his walk but they manage well enough and Newt fries them up a nice Christmas breakfast.

They keep the fire stoked up as hot as they can manage and spend most of the day bundled up on the couch together. Newt gives Hermann a hand knitted scarf which he admires immensely, immediately wrapping it around himself. It’s Newt’s first attempt at a scarf and he can see every error in its composition, but Hermann doesn’t seem to notice or comment.

His own present from Hermann is a few warm sweaters and a watch, engraved with his name and Hermann’s as a reminder of who has given the present. Every reminder that Newt is still himself and so well loved is appreciated. He loves the watch immediately and can’t stop staring at it. The fact that Hermann would give him something to wear always fills him with such a profound fondness.

“Are you alright, Newton?” Hermann asks, after he’s caught Newt staring at the watch for about the fifth time. They’ve just folded up the blanket for the night.

“I’m fine.” Newt wipes his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s crying, but he is.

“You do like the present, right? I can always get you something else if you prefer.”

“No! I love it.”

“Ah, alright.”

Hermann turns away from him then and he wraps his arms around his midsection, resting his cheek against Hermann’s shoulder. He’s wearing one of Newt’s flannel shirts again and the texture is pleasant on his cheek. Still, he wants to peel it off and rid them both of the pretenses of their clothes.

“Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?” Hermann asks softly, and the invitation sounds like the exact opposite of what Newt is currently thinking. That’s oddly a comfort.

Newt knows objectively that his bed is larger, but they climb into Hermann’s bed together, the same as they did in the early days of Newt’s recovery, now nearly a year ago. Tonight’s different, though. Tonight there’s no pretense and Hermann slips an arm around Newt, pulls him close to his chest. Newt dares to rest a hand above his heart, where he can trace the rise and fall of his chest and the soft thrum of his heartbeat. When he drifts to sleep, he pretends he’s had this every night for many years and he feels closer to the reality than he did in the days he lived with Hermann. It’s the best he’s slept since before he can remember.

 

For some reason, he’s agreed to come back with Hermann for a few days to celebrate the New Year. He understands that Hermann’s reached his threshold for bitter cold farm life, but it seems important to Hermann that he doesn’t spend a holiday alone. Newt doesn’t even want to try to venture why Hermann would think this and, even if Newt knows there’s nothing to worry about, he can’t fault Hermann for being concerned about him.

The truth is, Newt doesn’t feel as much like he’s been hollowed out and then shoved back into himself. His thoughts are his own and they’re startlingly clear. He was captured over a year and a half ago and he knows he’s been doing better by the day since then, even before his official recovery began. (Because God knows his recovery took backseat to defeating the Precursors once and for all. Newt can’t blame the PPDC or anyone else.) 

He also knows that no matter how good he becomes at handling his emotions, when he’s alone he’ll still try to conceptualize the lives lost because of him. Because of a mistake he’d made in a foolish attempt to save the world. But no. The thing he did saved the world, the long term ramifications were immense, but he saved the world. And it was Hermann beside him and Hermann beside him ever since.

A year in control of his body, give or take, does not compensate for ten years with no semblance of control, but it takes the edge off the pain. As much as Newt knows he’ll never shed his desire to cut into something (anything but Hermann, the only thing that must remain intact) he’s built so much. The farmhouse is now cornflower blue and warm on the inside and the downstairs rooms are finished and decorated beautifully. There’s a room for him and a room that Hermann’s claimed, that he’s brought some of his things to settle in. He wants Hermann to settle in forever, but it’s about small steps.

The surprising thing about New Year’s is that it’s Hermann himself who has a party. It’s small, some colleagues and friends of Hermann’s. It’s obvious from the way they talk to Newt, about Newt, that Hermann’s told them as much as he could about Newt. He really doesn’t mind, because whatever Hermann says is bound to be more charitable than what the news has said, what the history books may venture about his life.

Most of the evening he keeps to himself, but he watches and he talks politely to anyone who speaks to him. There’s a man at the party who he finds particularly interesting, Peter, who talks to him for a good while about his work on the farmhouse. Peter seems to know more about him than the others and Newt knows this must mean Hermann trusts him. That should be good enough, it should be wonderful that Hermann has such a close friend but it fills Newt with a profound dread and he watches Peter’s every move.

When he catches a glimpse of a smile shared between the two men it’s too much to handle. He’d never considered this possibility, that Hermann would have someone else. That he’d keep Hermann waiting and eventually it would be too late, all because he was a coward or too much. All because he wanted to keep Hermann how he was without damaging him further by association.

The room breaks into eager chatter as midnight approaches and Newt takes the chance to slip into the bedroom, sitting against the wall in the dark. It’s quiet there, safe, he doesn’t have to risk seeing anything he doesn’t want to see. Everyone is talking so loudly and he wants them to be miles away. He should have stayed home, he should have stayed away. This is unbearable and this is how he knows he’s not ready for a relationship, even if he’s lost the only remaining chance he has at one. (Because, oh, there is no one else for him in this world. He can’t fathom the idea.)

The door pushes open with a minute until midnight, a sliver of light in the room and too familiar footsteps follow it.

“Newton?” Hermann asks, placing a hand on the edge of the bed so he can drop to his knees. “Are you alright?”

Newt shakes his head but he can’t bring himself to say anything.

“This is too many people and too much noise, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Newt croaks out. “They’re all fine. They’re all great people. You’ve got great friends.”

The ten second countdown begins as Hermann pulls him to his chest, running a soothing hand down his back. Newt’s crying and he knows Dr. Sutcliffe has told him countless times that crying is a healthy part of recovery. He still feels weak because of it in this moment, like he’s seconds from falling apart. The living room bursts out in cheering and noise making and Newt’s year is greeted with quiet reassurances in his ear and a kiss pressed to the top of his head.

“I’ll tell them they have to go home shortly,” Hermann remarks. “This is your home as well.”

He pulls away, trying to glance up at Hermann in the darkness. “This is your home.”

“Anything that’s mine is yours, Newton. Why don’t you get ready for bed and I’ll clear the apartment.”

“You don’t have to. Peter-”

“Ah, Peter.”

“He seems like a very nice man.”

“But not quite the man for me, you see.” Hermann rises carefully and Newt holds out his cane to him. 

Newt wonders what would happen if he asked Hermann to kiss him then and there, how his night would change. He doesn’t dare venture it.

 

Winter seems to linger for what seems like ages. It’s not until April when it’s warm enough to properly be outside most days, but Newt doesn’t mind the indoors work so much. By the first week of April, though, he’s outdoors, setting to work in his front yard. He’s painting some shutters for the windows, a darker blue that’ll go remarkably well with the color of the house. Even with the chill in the air, he’s only in one of his flannels and jeans. When it’s not extreme, Newt doesn’t mind feeling the cold. It tethers him to his body and reminds him acutely of how wonderful it feels to be alive.

He glances up to the porch part way through painting, smiling at Hermann as he sits on one of the wooden chairs. In his lap is Bertrand, the cat both Dr. Sutcliffe and Hermann had insisted Newt adopt to help with his loneliness. Except Newt doesn’t feel lonely as often anymore. This is both because he’s learning to cope and because Hermann’s been here almost every weekend for the past three months.

Despite his work being incomplete, Newt climbs the porch steps and settles in the chair opposite Hermann.

“Did you rest well?” Newt asks.

“Very, thank you.”

Some afternoons when Hermann's over, he'll sleep while Newt works. On occasion, they'll doze on the couch together, wrapped up in each other's arms and then won't say anything of it when they wake. Partially there's nothing to say, really, it's the easy intimacy of an old friendship. But Newt knows it's not just that. He knows from the way he'd climbed out of Hermann's arms only an hour prior and Hermann reached for him. He's always reaching for him, his hands, his face, his whole body, and Newt feels like a bastard for denying him this. He doesn't think what he's missed out on for loving Hermann for so long, but he acutely feels the life that Hermann's been deprived of. That he's currently depriving him of.

“How’s work been?” Newt ventures. “I realized I didn’t ask earlier.”

“It’s the same as always, Newton. I actually spoke with some very interesting colleagues who work at the aquarium who said that-”

“Hermann.”

“I know you like your farmhouse, but do you honestly want to spend the rest of your days here? Only here?”

“I feel safe here. I feel good here.” Newt feels like he’s withdrawing into a shell he hasn’t even realize he’s built around himself.

“I can keep you safe,” Hermann says. “I can make you feel-” The word drops off, the statement still stands true. Hermann can make him feel in a way nothing else has ever, but especially since he’s begun his recovery.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“For the last bloody time, you are not an obligation, Newt. You are my- my dearest friend in the world and I want to help you.”

“You’ve helped me so much already, I don’t want to burden you anymore. I’m tired of burdening you.”

“You only burden me when you don’t share your own burden.”

“I’m not your responsibility.” Newt stands abruptly. “I’m tired of putting you through this, alright? I’m tired of all of this.” Despite complaining, Newt can’t even fully articulate what it is he’s tired of, he doesn’t know.

“Forget I mentioned anything, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Newt feels two warring urges inside him, the two that always scream out to him. His fingers itch for a scalpel, or to take Hermann in his arms and he’s not sure which should win. Or maybe they both should win. Instead, he marches off of the porch and back to painting the shutters. He doesn’t talk to Hermann for most of the rest of the night.

There’s a knock on his door, though, when he’s already in bed. Newt switches on his lamp and sits up, looking bleary eyed at Hermann in the doorway. He rubs his eyes.

“I’m tired too,” Hermann admits, and at first Newt doesn’t understand because of course he’s tired, he should be sleeping. “But I’m going to keep waiting for you, Newton. It’s been...so many years but even if I’m tired I’m always going to be waiting for you.”

“I don’t want you to wait,” Newt answers, patting his bed.

Hermann steps into the room, resting his cane against the nightstand before he lays on the other side of the bed.

“But I don’t think you’ve decided within yourself what that means for you.”

He feels his face twist into a reluctant frown. Hermann’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make anything about this easier for him. He’s never hid his bleeding heart from him, at least not since he’s come to this house, this perfect little excuse to hide from the world.

“I’m keeping this house,” Newt states. “But I’ll...I guess it wouldn’t hurt to consider moving elsewhere eventually.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to get rid of the house completely. It’s been paramount to your healing process and I respect your need to be away from people far too much to expect you to give this up.”

“My need to be away from most people.” 

“Most people, yes.”

“We’ll talk about this more in the future. We can still wait.”

For perhaps the first time in Newt’s recovery, he doesn’t want to wait.

 

Dr. Sutcliffe’s office is comfortably decorated in Van Gogh paintings and knick knacks from global travels. Newt had spent his first two sessions talking about the figures from Germany, the crosswalk symbols of a young boy and girl. He’d gone on a tirade about how he was born only a few short years after the collapse of the wall, how his father grew up in East Berlin but managed to find his way out. In return, Dr. Sutcliffe used the escape as an allegory for his own life and Newt couldn’t quite bring himself to compare communism to alien invaders using his body to destroy the world.

But he liked Dr. Sutcliffe and her forthright answers and her calm face. She didn’t have the condescending nature of the therapists he’d seen as a teen and a young man and while she knew about the atrocities he’d committed, she wasn’t technically employed by the PPDC so she understood an outsider’s perspective. Most weeks, Newt talked about things that had occurred to him, what he was building, progress on the painting. Once, he brought her a basket full of eggs and she laughed and thanked him for his kindness.

It’s been a year now, or nearly so, since he’s started to see her. The condition of moving out of Hermann’s watchful eye was that he find someone to tend to his mental health and he has it on good authority that he’ll be seeing a mental health professional for the rest of his natural life. Newt understands this, he would do anything to bargain for his freedom. The fear of being trussed up in a cell again, both literally and metaphorically, is too much for him to process. Newt couldn’t survive that again. He wouldn’t survive that again. He’d outright refuse.

Today, Dr. Sutcliffe is insisting they talk about what Newt thinks is her personal favorite topic: his love life. Or lack thereof.

“You know, Newt,” she observes. “Some animals make their homes very appealing in the hopes of attracting a mate. You’ve been telling me about all these things you do for your house and you say it’s to keep your hands busy, but that doesn’t explain everything you’ve done.”

Newt bites his lip, knowing full well where this conversation is going. It’s not the first time she’s tried to touch on this subject.

“But you’ve also done some particular things. Put in bars in the bathrooms, a ramp to the front porch, and now you’ve painted the door a new color because a friend offhandedly told you that a yellow door would look charming.”

“You can say his name, dude. I know who you’re talking about.”

“Do you think you’re doing some of these things to get Hermann to stay, then?”

“Yeah, I am.” He sighs. “I’ve- it’s not like I want him to stay, not entirely. I want him to live the life that’ll make him happiest and I know I’m- even if I was who I was a decade ago I wouldn’t be the life he deserves after all he’s done.”

“I don’t think it’s up to you to decide what he does or doesn’t deserve.”

“I almost killed him, don’t you get it? I almost killed him and he- this is what he does. He drives up to see me and sit with me in the middle of nowhere because he trusts me. Because he lo- because he loves me. And I’m a selfish bastard who won’t let him go and live his life how he wants because I love him too. And I can’t even do that right because I’m just- I can’t even give myself to him and I’m so tired of not doing that.”

“It wasn’t you that almost killed him.”

“Is that all you heard in that?”

“I heard a lot in that statement, Newt. You’re in love with a man who’s in love with you and you feel bad about it because you feel that you’re not worthy, we’ve gone over your self worth concerns before and we will likely to continue to discuss them as you work on them. But you’re not telling him this and you’re not pushing away. In fact, in your own way, it sounds like you’re trying to build a life with him. Why is this, do you think?”

“Because one day-” Newt stops, clenches his jaw for a moment. “Because one day he’s going to tell me how he feels and I won’t tell him to go away. Because I was never going to tell him to go away when the truth came out, I’m only human. But when he does, I’m going to do everything in my power to make him happy.”

 

The water is perfectly warm in the heat of a late June evening. Newt had been fishing as the sun dipped below the horizon, but he couldn’t resist the call of water, stripping down and slipping in. As he floats, he feels free and elated. He feels nothing and everything. There’s a manic energy bubbling below the surface of his skin, but it’s familiar and it’s home. Whatever’s on the horizon, it’s him, and if it took a year of near seclusion to get to this point, he thinks that’s a fair price to pay.

He glances up to catch sight of Hermann carefully sitting down at the end of the dock. He’s in his own swim trunks, a surprising sight and Newt drinks in the sight of his pale skin for a few moments before he swims over to him.

“Last year you told me there were only minnows in this pond,” Hermann remarks, gesturing over at Newt’s discarded fishing rod.

“There’s a few slightly bigger fish,” Newt answers, crossing his arms on the dock. “Nothing that’ll do more than a little bite. You gonna come in?”

“No, I just thought I’d wear these because I like the look of them.”

An undignified splash follows as Hermann slips into the water beside him and Newt laughs when Hermann yelps. Likely his foot has touched a particularly slimey rock or something else unpleasant.

“Keep your feet off the bottom,” Newt instructs. “It’s better to not know what’s lurking beneath the surface.”

“I find that hard to believe coming from you, of all people.”

“Hush, just enjoy the water. It’s calm, right? Quiet.”

“It’s wonderful, Newton.” 

The last bit of daylight is slipping, but Newt can see in achingly clear detail how beautiful Hermann’s face is when it lights up. He can’t bring himself to come in from the swim until another two hours have passed, until Hermann’s insistent that they go inside and eat something. Besides, the warmth of the afternoon has passed by the water and now it’s cold, reflective and dark. Newt knows better than to give into the call of deep, dark waters.

Afterwards, they sit on the front steps of Newt’s porch. Hermann smells like the after swim shower he insisted on taking and he’s still got hair plastered to his forehead. Newt’s even more in love with the way his hair curls around his ears than he was before. He rests his head on Hermann’s shoulder and he doesn’t care what this means. Or better yet, he knows exactly what this means and he’s willing to admit the meaning freely and openly to the world.

“Come live with me,” Hermann exhales, still staring unflinching ahead. The only thing they can see on nights like this is the outline of the distant trees and the winking of fireflies. It’s only the two of them in this big expanse of the world, and the sound of Newt’s music from the kitchen. “Or I’ll stay here always, I don’t care which.”

“Hermann.”

“We don’t have to- I have no expectations, but I can’t bear this any longer, Newton. At first I thought I was being too much, because I was worried about you here alone. But I ache for you when you’re not around.”

“That sounded a bit like a romance novel there, dude.” Newt lifts his head, angles Hermann’s face towards his own. “We can do both.”

Hermann swallows hard and Newt loves him so much he aches as well, but that’s not how he’d articulate the thought. 

“I love you,” Hermann says, because one of them needs to say it and it was always going to be him.

“I know, I know. I love you too.” Newt presses his forehead against Hermann’s, faces away from the unknown and to the blissfully known.

In the next moment, Hermann kisses him, hard and sweet and the aching is gone. Newt is not afraid he’s going to get lost in this kiss, he trusts Hermann with his everything, with his whole life. In this kiss, he is found and the pieces of him that are terrified drift through to the summer sky. He’s not his old self again yet and he may never will be, but he will be at peace, he is happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ pendragoff and twitter @ newtguzzler


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